


John Knows

by Bazzle



Series: John Knows [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV John, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazzle/pseuds/Bazzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hadn't been trying to surprise them, he really hadn’t. He had just been trying to be quiet enough not to wake them… after all, what could your two sons possibly be doing at 2 am on their own in a motel room? They seemed to have found a few things to do... </p>
<p>John-centric discovery of our boys. Ages 16 and 20.</p>
<p>SEQUEL IS NOW UP! Part 2: John Doesn't Have to Know</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Knows

**Author's Note:**

> SEQUEL IS NOW UP! Part 2: John Doesn't Have to Know

John sat at the kitchen table, listening to the muffled sounds on the other side of the door. He was doing his damnedest not to imagine what was causing them even though there was little question at this point though. 

He hadn't been trying to surprise them, he really hadn’t. He had just been trying to be quiet enough not to wake them… after all, what could your two sons possibly be doing at 2 am on their own in a motel room?

They seemed to have found a few things to do. 

Sixteen... John thought, Sam is only sixteen.

The thought was punctuated by a noise no sixteen-year-old should be making. The sound of the bed springs was louder now, faster. John squeezed his eyes closed childishly, like that would block out the sounds that were breaking his heart. 

He didn’t know what was keeping him here. He didn’t have to hear it after all. John could leave, come back in an hour and tell them that he knew. He could leave, come back in an hour and pretend he had no idea. He could leave, never come back because he had put a bullet in his brain… because what could he have possibly done so wrong that this…. that this...

"D-Dean!" 

"God!"

The frantic squeaks reached a crescendo and then fell into a lazy rhythm that gave John far too vivid of an image to work with.

His stomach was rolling, and he tried to figure out what it is that he was actually feeling. The first guess was naturally anger. No, that wasn't what he was feeling. Shame? Not quite. Disappointment, but not in his boys.

Devestation. That's what he was feeling. Because somehow, the two people who were his responsibility, the two pieces of living evidence of the goodness that once was his wife, had tainted themselves in such an unforgivable way... and he was sure it was his fault. 

The stillness from the room gave John a small sense of relief. His plan was to sit listening to that silence, while his sons lay undoubtedly wrapped up in each other sleeping, until the sun came up, trying to work out what on earth he was supposed to do now. 

But apparently some higher power didn't want to give him time to think.

"Hun-gryyy…." came a whiny voice from the other side of the door along with a bounce of bedsprings.

He heard Dean's chuckle, "You're a walking stereotype."

"I'd rather have a bowl of ice-cream than a cuddle," Sam answered, his voice just behind the door already.

John's eyes zeroed in on the door knob turning, and was only vaguely aware of the fact that these two boys were about to have their entire universe crash in on them the second that Sam saw what was waiting for him. John had less sympathy than he should. The shattered pieces of their reality could keep the pieces of his broken heart company.

The door swung open. Sam took a step into the room, sweatpants hanging low on his skinny hips.

Sam was always bad about remembering his lessons. 

_"I don't care how scared you are Sam, Scared comes with the business. Now you keep your head no matter what kind of monster is staring you in the face, because otherwise you're dead. Got that?"_

Sam’s mouth falls open when his eyes lock with his fathers. His eyes are impossibly wide as Sam stands there in the doorframe, completely immobile. Sam doesn't move an inch, even though the tension in his muscles make him look like he's about to flee and the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes are about to fall.

"Sam?" John hears Dean’s confused voice, then when he doesn’t respond, "Sam!?"

Dean remembers his lessons. 

_"Every second counts, son. You hesitated, I saw it Dean, and you were lucky this time. But one more second and that vamp would've had your brother by the throat."_

So it's no surprise that Dean has arrived behind his brother with a shotgun in hand mere seconds after he sees that his brother is scared enough of something that he can't speak. He sees what has him so terrified, and the same gut-wrenching fear is plain on his face…

…but Dean remembers his lessons.

_"Always stand between danger and your brother, do you hear me Dean? Before anything else, protect Sammy. If you're both going down, you gotta make sure that you go down first."_

He's between his father and Sam in a second, and the rifle is by his side, but he doesn't loosen his grip on it at all. John should be offended by it, but he knows that if Sam weren't here then Dean would have dropped the gun and taken whatever punishment his father had prepared for him. But the threat is there, and John knows he's not going to let go of that gun while his father can see his brother.

"Dad," Dean says and his voice cracks so hard that John doesn't even think he tried to sound defiant.

John doesn't say anything, just stands slowly from his seat. It makes Dean reach a hand behind him to push Sam further into the bedroom.

"Dad, I can explain," Dean says, and when his father comes to stand close enough to be a threat, Dean's holds his hands up on either side of the doorframe, blocking him from entering. 

John stares now at his first-born, human shield for his baby brother, and he wonders what kind of a person he must be that Dean would think this was necessary. Dean, the only person John thinks holds him in any kind of high regard. 

John looks behind Dean to see Sam's eyes darting between John. Dean and Dean's gun. John tries to remember if there's ever been a time when he has looked more scared, but he doesn't think that he has.

"Dad," Dean says, his voice is pleading now, "Leave Sammy out of this."

"Dean," he says, "I'm not going to…" he can't even finish the sentence. Hurt him? Hit him? Shoot him? What did Dean think he was going to do?

Dean's hands began to shake and a tear falls down his cheek, but he doesn't change his stance.

He remembers his lessons.

_"Never trust a killer Dean, and that's what we all are. We can work with hunters, but we can't trust them. Anything that's killed before is capable of anything."_

"Why don't we go for a drive, Dean," John says finally.

Dean's eyes widen. The hand on the doorframe without the rifle grips the wood with white knuckles. John can see the calculations in his brain. 

_"I'm not invincible, son… don't cry, it's only a bite. I'll heal up real quick. I'm not invincible, and neither are you… we're both gonna leave this world at some point, but we're going to leave it as safe as we can before we go out. You got that?"_

"Just you and me?" Dean asks quietly.

"Just us," John answers.

"No way," Sam says, and it’s the first thing he's managed to get out since he's seen his father. "No, you’re not going alone," Sam says, and his voice is always surprisingly deep these days. Even after Sam had grown so that Dean only has an inch or two on him, John is still surprised when he can hear the adult Sam is becoming.

"It's okay," Dean says and finally drops the barrier, turning to look at Sam, "It's fine." 

He reaches a hand out to his face, and it falters. He drops it on his shoulder instead and Sam looks like he's about to break down.

"Don't," is all that Sam says in a voice that John thinks must be the voice that gets him whatever he wants. It's a command, and Dean's hand tightens on Sam's shoulder and his head drops. Sam sees his chance so he plows on, "It's as much my fault as yours and if you think that you're going to-"

"It's not."

The voice isn't Dean's, it's John's. Sam’s eyes lock onto their father’s. 

"It's not your fault at all, Sam," John says. 

Dean's head snaps back to his fathers and the look isn't one of surprise, it's shame. His face falls because he hears the other side of that statement loud and clear.

Your fault, is what Dean hears, and John watches that fact sink in, and Dean looks like he's never hated himself more. 

"Put on some clothes," John says, knowing he won’t fight now, "We're going for a drive."

Dean pushes past Sam without another word and Sam tries to grab at his wrist, but Dean wrenches it free. He disappears into the bedroom and John listens to their muffled argument, Sam's words fast and scared, Dean's quiet but sure.

When he comes back to the doorway, he's fully clothed and the rifle is gone. John knows that he left it somewhere in the bedroom for Sam. John would like to think that it is in case something happens while they're gone, but he knows it's to protect him from John if Dean doesn't come back for whatever reason.

As they walk out of the door, John watches as Sam grabs at Dean's hand, but doesn't pull him back. Dean looks at him, and he just squeezes his hand. Dean nods and then Sam looks relieved. Then Sam looks at his father, his eyes cold and challenging. John knows that the challenge isn't bringing up their hand-holding, it's the threat that if he hurts Dean, there will be hell to pay.

John wonders how he can know his children so well, and have been so blind-sided in this. 

Dean pulls away and they walk to the impala together, taking their familiar seats, John behind the wheel and Dean at his side. There’s nothing comforting about it now though.

When John pulls out, it's in silence. Their motel is in a small town, and it takes five minutes pulling past dingy neon bar-signs and worn out store fronts before they're on open, empty road. There's nothing but fields and the heavy purr of the impala to distract them from the conversation at hand.

"You should know," Dean begins, "If you plan on shooting me like a dog, Sam has promised to avenge me."

"That's not funny, Dean," John says. The moment he says it, Dean's huffing the tiniest breath of relief and he visibly relaxes. 

It's taken 20 years, but John knows how to read Dean with nothing else to go on except for the set of his shoulders in his peripheral vision from his seat in the impala… and right now? John knows that Dean had just found a snarky way to make sure he wasn't about to die. Dean wanted to make it sound like a joke, but John knows that Dean was actually afraid that his own father would kill him. John knows that Sam and Dean actually had had that conversation before they left. John knows that Sam probably made Dean promise that if it came to that, Dean would fight tooth and nail to come back home to him... even though John knows that Dean would never keep that promise, not if Dean really believed he had hurt his little brother.

_John knows… John knows... John knows..._

Didn't know about this one, says a voice in the back of his head.

They drive in silence for a few minutes, the open road stretching out before him.

"You gotta say something, Dad," Dean says finally and he sounds strung-out.

"I'm still trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say here, Dean," he says.

Dean nods, and turns his head out the window.

"I assume that this wasn't the first time that this has happened?" John asks.

Dean keeps his head turned toward the outside world as he huffs out the most humorless laugh John has ever heard. It's as much of an affirmative as he could hope for.

"How long then?" 

Dean takes a long time to answer.

"That summer at Bobby's," Dean says finally.

A beat.

"Two years?" John asks, amazed. "You've managed to keep this from me for two years?"

Dean doesn't answer. And the math clicks in his head.

“God, Dean...” John says, and he wishes he couldn’t sound so disgusted but he is, “Fourteen? You did this when he was only fourteen?”

Dean shakes his head fervently, and John wonders if he keeps looking out the window to hide the tears.

“We weren’t-” he begins, and his voice is wrecked, “I didn’t touch him, god, Dad... it just... I don’t know.”

“When did that start, then?” John asks.

Dean sniffs, and mumbles, “Christmas.”

Christmas... he had left them in a pretty decent house for once in the woods in Wisconsin for three weeks, missing Christmas and New Years.

Dean is still staring out the window in the passenger seat and John lets the timeline sink in and lets his organized mind start to work it out. It’s easier than letting his imagination have free-reign again. How many times had he left them alone? How many times had they sought out separate hotel rooms? When was the last time he made them share a bed? How long would they wait for him to be gone before falling into that bed? How long had they wanted it before they did it?

That brought a question to mind.

"Who started it?" John asks.

This time, Dean takes no time to answer. 

"I did,” his voice doesn’t waver this time.

John laughs now, and it feels like a sad replacement for a sob, "Bullshit."

"Dad-"

"How long did he beg for it before you gave in?" John asked and there’s more venom in his voice than he meant.

"He didn't beg!" Dean says, the sudden rage and instinct to defend his Sammy momentarily pausing his tears.

"Call it whatever you want," John said, "How long did it take before you gave in."

"How can you be so sure that he was the one-"

"Because this isn't you, Dean!" John said seriously, and now he turned to look at Dean who looked positively helpless.

He shook his head and pulled the Impala to the side of the road. He closed his eyes, hands still gripping the steering wheel and tried to find the right way of putting this. 

"You would never willingly take your baby brother to bed, no matter how much you wanted it. Now you don't have to tell me how long he wanted it, but you can't expect me to believe that you initiated this."

Dean stared back at him, mouth hung open, and had nothing to say. John knew what he was doing, knew that he had to make Dean believe that to be the brother and protector he had always been, he could not be this for him as well.

"I guess," John said looking back at the road, "What I'm really trying to ask is how long has this really been going on. I'm not talking about sex-" John is incredibly proud at how easily he says that "-or anything like that-" don't think about whatever that entails, "-what I mean is when is the real beginning of it, because if we can figure that out and what started it, maybe we can fix it."

John doesn't look at Dean but he's gone very still again.

"The beginning?"

John just nods his head and waits. Dean takes a long time to answer, but when he finally speaks, his voice is more even than it's been all night.

"Forever," Dean says.

John's hands grip the wheel a fraction tighter, and he knows Dean must have seen the warning signs because his words start coming fast now.

"I mean it, Dad," Dean says, "I'm not saying that I've wanted hi- It's just always been him and me, you know?"

John doesn't answer, not that he has much time to when his son plows on. 

"And I swear dad, I swear I wouldn't do a thing to hurt him. Never, not once-” his words are tripping over each other, “-and I don’t know Dad, ever since you told me to take him out of the house that night, I swear it's like you switched on some kind of lever in my brain and set me to Sam-mode and the house was on fire and I think about it constantly. It must have been so hot, I know I must have breathed in so much smoke because they put those masks on me in the ambulance, but I swear the one thing I can remember from that night was what it felt like holding on to Sammy...” he pauses and John can tell he’s watching him carefully, because they don’t talk about that night, “-And... and how much better I felt when I finally got him to stop crying on that lawn, Dad.” his voice is gentler now, “Everything I owned was on fire. You and Mom could have been dead and the center of my world was still Sammy that night, Dad… That night and every night since."

John doesn’t tell Dean that the only thing he remembers about that night was her. He doesn’t tell Dean that everything that wasn’t his wife is a blur in his memories, even his children. He remembers finding them in his arms while they watched their world burn down, but he doesn’t remember how they got there, because he couldn’t think of anything except for the person he loved that night... just like Dean couldn’t think of anything except for Sam. 

John looked at his son, realizing that his face was unashamed now, unashamed but desperate for his father to understand. 

“Have you ever told Sam that?” John asks turning away from the look on his son’s face.

Dean shrugs, “Not like that, no.” 

John hates himself for what he’s about to do and what it will do to his son.

“Good,” John says, “Then it’s not too late to end it.”

“No!” Dean says, and he sounds younger than he is, scared, “No, please.”

"You two can be all of that for each other without… this," John says finally.

Dean began to shake his head fervently, "You don't get it… when you're everything to someone else, and especially when you're everything they have-"

"That's exactly it, Dean," John says.

"What is?" 

"You're everything he has, and you take care of him. That’s just what you do. I know how much you love him. I know that you'd do anything for him, but you can't do this for him."

"That’s not what it’s like. It's not just for him-"

"I know what you would do for him, and I never imagined that this would be-"

"You're not listening-"

"-a possibility but you need to stop because you’re indulging him. You give him whatever he wants whenever he wants, you spoil him-”

“DAD!” 

John’s words stopped abruptly. And he sees that Dean is staring at him with something akin to hatred, and that scares John more than anything he’s seen or heard all night.

“I am not indulging him,” his voice is careful now, his words are slow and his expression dangerous. “I doubt he knows the word, seeing as he’s grown up in a motel room without a mom, raised on ramen and store-brand mac and cheese for special occasions, all of which you MISSED! You consider that spoiled?" he asked incredulous. 

"You have the guts to accuse ME of spoiling him, when I have gone days without eating so many times to make sure that Sam went to bed with a full stomach… when I've had my nose broken as many times by meatheads in bars while hustling pool as I  
have by shape-shifters or werewolves on a hunt, all because I was trying to find enough money to buy him a pair of jeans that fit. That is what you call spoiled? You cheap, selfish son-of-a-bitch. This probably wouldn't have happened if you had sprung for two fucking beds. What the hell could expect?” 

Dean laughed, but the tears were in his eyes again. 

“What the fuck did you think was going to happen when I started having wet dreams and I was still sharing a bed with my brother? Or when Sam asked me what it meant when he got his first boner? You put us in more situations that opened the door to this than we put ourselves in so you can thank yourself for never giving us ‘the talk’ or letting us have enough breathing room that we didn’t live in each others skin.

“Maybe if we stayed in a town for long enough for me to have a girlfriend things would be different... Or maybe if Sam got to go to school long enough to have a friend to talk to about the fact that he was having inappropriate thoughts about his brother, he could have gotten past it... but he didn’t, Dad. He just had me, because he sure as hell didn’t have you to talk to about it even if he had wanted to.”

John couldn’t look at Dean now. 

“Spoiled,” Dean said, his breathing heavy but his voice quiet now, defeated, “Un-fucking-believable... God forbid a fucking child uses his one source of affection or love or caring to find some kind of comfort in this shit-hole of a life you’ve given us... But none of that matters, right?” he said, “Cause this is my fault, you already said it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” John said quietly, his voice weak.

Dean looked up to see his father staring straight ahead. 

“It’s my fault,” John said. “Just like you said. You’re right... About everything... you’re right...” Dean was looking at his father amazed, “But it doesn’t mean-”

Dean began shaking his head violently.

“Dean,” his father was begging him now. “You have to listen to me... it doesn’t mean it’s right.”

Dean’s eyes were brimming with tears now, still shaking his head and looking at the sky outside of the Impala, as if by denying the moment he would be able to make it go away.

“Some things... some things just aren’t allowed,” John said. Dean sniffed and two tears spilled over his eyelashes as he looked at his lap instead of his father. “You never questioned me when I said to you that monsters were evil. You never had to think twice when I told you it was the right thing to do chop off a Vampires head. Some things are just wrong... and there’s no gray area. You can’t see it, because you’re in it. But doing this to your brother will never be okay, you’ll always be hurting him,” and John hated himself for phrasing it like that, knowing how Dean would take the bait if he truly believed he was harming Sam, “Maybe you’ll understand if you have children. What you’re doing to Sam is wrong.”

There was a long pause while they sat with the cicadas chirping and the night oppressively dark but for the stars. 

“What if-” his voice cracked, and he swallowed, staring out the window humiliated for a moment, before he turned back, his eyes desperate, “What if I love him though?”

John could see his son breaking.

“You’ve always loved him,” John said, “And you have to keep on loving him. Just not like this.”

Dean shook his head and tried for a smile, but it just came out as a hard grimace, “So I’m just supposed to live without the person I love? For the rest of my life?”

John wasn’t sure if that made him want to laugh or cry.

“I’ve managed... so far anyways,” John said.

And Dean’s attempt at a smile completely shattered, and his face crumpled, and the tears fell freely now.

John waited, for minutes he waited watching his son cry silently. Then, finally, Dean shakily nodded his head before he broke down completely.

Without another word, John started the engine and began driving them back to the motel while Dean tried to stifle his sobs in the seat next to him. When they finally pulled into the parking lot, Dean had calmed down for the most part. John waited for him while he breathed deeply and tried to slow his tears. Finally, he pulled the door open and John followed him out of the car.

Dean was hovering near the trunk, and John pulled him into a hug and wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders while they shook. They didn’t touch like this, almost never. It only happened when one of them was dying, or being carried or cared for. Even though the situation could hardly be worse, John felt like at least he could still hold his kid while he cried. 

“It was gonna happen eventually, kid,” he said quietly, “You couldn’t have kept this a secret forever.”

Dean nodded, his face in his father’s chest. 

“You have to tell him,” John said.

Dean stiffened and pulled away.

“Don’t make me,” he said, his voice helpless and weak from the tears.

“You have to,” John said, “He won’t listen to me. I’ll be back in the morning to pick you up, we’re moving on tomorrow.”

Dean looked miserable. Eyes rimmed with red and body still shaking, he turned from his father and walked towards the motel. 

 

The next morning, John was waiting outside of their motel room leaning against Bobby’s truck with Bobby himself.

When the boys came out, duffel bags in hand Sam’s face fell at the sight.

“No,” Sam said immediately, “That’s not fair.”

“What?” Dean asked, not catching on as quickly.

“Dean, we’re going after a werewolf in Ohio... Sam’s going to help Bobby out with a hunt in Madison and then do some work on his Archives,” John said. He didn’t bother to address Sam directly, there was no point.

Sam was glaring at him and John didn’t blame him.

“And if I don’t go?” Sam asked.

“Sam...” Dean said. He sounded tired. He sounded defeated, “It’s not for forever...” then a flash of panic, “Right?” he said looking between the two of them.

“Not forever,” John said, “Just a month... maybe not even.”

Dean nodded, stepped forward and shook Bobby’s hand without meeting his eyes before turning to the Impala to drop his duffel in there. Sam didn’t move, just glared at John for a moment before turning his attention back to his brother, face softening.

“Hang on,” Sam said. He walked over to the trunk and opened Dean’s duffel began pulling out the belongings he hadn’t bothered to pack into his own bag. John watched as he took out a novel he had stolen two town libraries back and a toothbrush from the side pocket and a few other pieces of clothing that always got mixed up with Dean’s. John could have sworn that one of the shirts he took was certainly Dean’s, but Dean didn’t make any complaint about it.

But John was mostly watching the way Dean looked at him, his hand on the hood of the trunk and his attention always (always always always) focused on his Sammy. His expression was heartbreaking, something between longing and sadness. It made him look much older than he was. John suddenly felt like he was intruding on something private, Dean looking at his baby brother like he was never going to see him again. 

Sam had all his things gathered to his chest precariously when he stood up straight and looked up at Dean staring down at him. They both seemed to freeze when they locked eyes. John couldn’t see Sam’s face, but whatever Dean saw there made him drop hand off the hood of the trunk to cup Sam’s face instead as he dropped a kiss to Sam’s lips, so rushed and so desperate in those last moments together. 

John, completely shocked at the sight, immediately made to separate them when Bobby’s hand landed firmly on his shoulder, holding him in place. When he turned to ask Bobby what the hell he thought he was doing, he saw that Bobby wasn’t even looking at him. He didn’t loosen his grip on John, but his eyes were looking sadly at the two boys.

God, he should have fucking known.

“You knew.”

And it wasn’t a question.

Bobby turned to look at John, eyes hard, “You think I don’t know what goes on in my own house?”

John couldn’t even begin to ask him why the fuck he wouldn’t have told him, why he thought it was okay, and why he looked like John wasn’t worth the time of day right now.

Dean made his way to the passenger seat of the Impala, cheeks pink, and Sam was walking towards the truck.

He completely by-passed his father who wouldn’t have tried to say goodbye anyways. 

“You tell me if he’s getting to be too much,” John said.

“I won’t,” Bobby said, with less of a smile under that beard than normal.

“Thanks for this, Bobby,” John said.

“No skin off my nose, boy works harder than I do,” Bobby said, and with that he turned to get into the drivers seat of his car. 

John wanted to leave. Wanted to get away from this place and throw himself into the hunt. He imagined it would help Dean as well. 

When he got into the driver’s seat he pulled out immediately. The second they hit a road the could get away with it, he hit 70 and was ready for a long drive.

The trees were whipping past them and the sun was almost too bright when Dean said quietly, “I really love him, you know.”

“I know, Dean,” John says.

And John did know, even as he put as much space between his two sons as he could manage while they sat in two cars going opposite directions on the same highway.

**Author's Note:**

> There's an epilogue coming soon that will be entitled, "Bobby Knew" which will be Bobby POV of his and Sam's conversations in the car immediately following this chapter.
> 
> This was my first publication on this website and I hope you liked it! I am not a tumblr-user and I know that many a Wincest-shipper lives there, so if anyone likes this enough to share on their blog I would be forever grateful!


End file.
